xed
upon her. And he was hard, confident. She thrilled with the
excitement of it, and accepted. During the courtship, his kisses
were a wonder to her. She always thought about them, and
wondered over them. She never wanted to kiss him back. In her
idea, the man kissed, and the woman examined in her soul the
kisses she had received.

She had never quite recovered from her prostration of the
first days, or nights, of marriage. He had taken her to Vienna,
and she was utterly alone with him, utterly alone in another
world, everything, everything foreign, even he foreign to her.
Then came the real marriage, passion came to her, and she became
his slave, he was her lord, her lord. She was the girl-bride,
the slave, she kissed his feet, she had thought it an honour to
touch his body, to unfasten his boots. For two years, she had
gone on as his slave, crouching at his feet, embracing his
knees.

Children had come, he had followed his ideas. She was there
for him, just to keep him in condition. She was to him one of
the baser or material conditions necessary for his welfare in
prosecuting his ideas, of nationalism, of liberty, of
science.

But gradually, at twenty-three, twenty-four, she began to
realize that she too might consider these ideas. By his
acceptance of her self-subordination, he exhausted the feeling
in her. There were those of his associates who would discuss the
ideas with her, though he did not wish to do so himself. She
adventured into the minds of other men. His, then, was not the
only male mind! She did not exist, then, just as his attribute!
She began to perceive the attention of other men. An excitement
came over her. She remembered now the men who had paid her
court, when she was married, in Warsaw.

Then the rebellion broke out, and she was inspired too. She
would go as a nurse at her husband's side. He worked like a
lion, he wore his life out. And she followed him helplessly. But
she disbelieved in him. He was so separate, he ignored so much.
He counted too much on himself. His work, his ideas,--did
nothing else matter?

Then the children were dead, and for her, everything became
remote. He became remote. She saw him, she saw him go white when
he heard the news, then frown, as if he thought, "Why
have they died now, when I have no time to grieve?"

"He has no time to grieve," she had said, in her remote,
awful soul. "He has no time. It is so important, what he does!
He is then so self-importa